have wondered, for there was a direct practical bearing in all that he did with this talent of his, which told mightily to his honour in a large community of boys. But the time came, and to him it came too soon, for Robert to exchange this life for one confined to the dark dull precincts of his father's office. He knew his fate; he had known it from his childhood; and through all his boyish years he no more thought of resisting it than we think of ceasing to breathe, or to fulfil any other of those functions which we look upon as necessities of our existence. It is wonderful how persons, even high-spirited and independent in other respects, can become woven about by chains which bind them as if made of iron, when in reality they are the kind soft links of parental love. It is the early application, the long growth, and the constant unremitting tension of these chains, which make them grow into the very being, so that no power can tear them away. But beyond thisoh! far beyond-is the tenderness, the affection, the evident solicitude for the good of the being thus guarded and bound down, which interweaves the chain so closely with the very elements of being, that even death itself would sometimes be preferable to the rending of the chain

away.

Beyond all this, Robert Clifton was a creature of habit, and he had looked so long at the favourite project of his parents, for his future good, that he himself would scarcely have turned his energies into any other channel as a means of living, even had the change been practicable. He had not tried it yet, however. He had only looked upon it as his father's favourite occupation; and there must, he doubted not, be something very pleasant in it, or why should so kind a father wish his son to follow in his steps. The truth was, Robert had no turn for accounts, simply as such, for the mere dealing with dry figures, unless they had reference to proportion, or some other quality, which gave interest to the use of such figures in calculation. His father thought the two ideas of profit and loss gave them interest enough, but Robert had not felt the power of this interest yet.

While the oldest of the Cliftons thus pursued his toilsome way,-for toilsome it

was to him, the other brothers grew up to take their separate places according to their destinations,-each, for the present, as unmurmuringly as their brother.

As the dream which preceded the birth of the second child had been more impressive to the feelings of the mother, though less distinct in its meaning than the first, so Seymour, the second boy, evinced a tendency of mind and character which threatened to baffle her most skilful designs in bringing about the end so much desired. Indeed, it must be confessed, that sometimes, under a sudden thrill of disappointment, her eye did turn doubtfully upon his younger brother Philip, whose sturdy limbs, and fearless tenper, with something of the bold animal, or call it the lion heart about him, made him look far more like the future admiral inan e gentie Seymour. But, no! this boy was destined for the Church-Seymour for the Navy; and they must be trained to fill their respective places,--that was all. It is quite probable that no particular qualities of mind or disposition, however adverse to the purpose in view, unless they included positive imbecility, would ever have cost the mother a single doubt; because she held firmly by the belief that training might do all which Nature had failed to do; but there was a delicacy of constitution apparent in the second son, which sometimes made the mother tremble for the consequences. The sea, however, she thought, was bracing. Once get him out, and he would be strong and vigorous like the rest of her children.

"But Seymy is a coward," suggested Philip; "he is frightened at a duck-pond. Let me go to sea,-I won't preach!" And he shouted this indignant protestation with the voice of an infant Hercules, much to the horror of his mother, who considered the expression of such sentiments as exceedingly irreverent, and as calling imperatively for immediate reproof, if not actual punishment.

All would not do, however, not even the more serious remonstrances of Robert, who had begun to think with Philip, that it would be well if the destination of the two brothers could be exchanged. Robert, however, like most people addicted to one ruling idea, willingly passed over much in which he might have taken a prominent

and useful part; although, whenever he did realize a fact, or make it his business to investigate any doubtful subject, his judgment was as correct as his heart was upright and kind.

That Seymy was a coward, was a very natural conclusion to be arrived at by such a boy as Philip, who loved any kind of boisterous battling in which his lusty limbs could be fully exercised, and who seemed to run into danger from the sheer pleasure it afforded him. Such natures can with difficulty understand how there may be a deep stratum of moral courage, sometimes underlying the weak surface of a delicate and ailing constitution of body. Seymy, doubtless was a coward, when Philip rocked violently the little boat in which they paddled to and fro in a pond at the farm, where they had been sent for the benefit of Seymour's health,--he was a coward when Philip played tricks with the tail of the pony, on which they performed their first equestrian exploits, he was a coward when Philip provoked the great mastiff at the door, until the furious animal would have devoured them both, could he have snapped the slender chain by which he was restrained; but there were cases for which the delicate boy was provided with as much courage as his boastful brother, and perhaps a little

more.

One of these occurred soon after Seymour went to a public school,-where it may well be supposed his sufferings were not of the most trifling description, especially as he had no older brother to defend him; Mr. and Mrs. Clifton having adhered faithfully to the principle they had taken up, that their children should be educated at as many different schools as possible, in order that they might extract the cream of all. So poor Seymour had no strong arm to defend him, no kind just heart to take his part. Thus he became at once the butt of half a school of " terrible fellows," as Seymour thought them, whose very looks and language struck horror into his soul. He had, in fact, neither thoughts nor words in common with theirs; and when they wanted to fight him, he first hid himself, then cried bitterly, and then ran for protection to one of the masters.

So poor Seymy was stigmatised as a

coward, and worse than a coward—a telltale! And yet he would almost have suffered martyrdom to save any one of those boys from half the agony they were inflicting upon him. And why should he fight them? He wanted to be friends with all-to do everyone good, if it were possible. He could see no reason in the world why he should fight those who were perfect strangers to him, and against whom he had no animosity. Besides which, he knew he was weak, that he should be scon overcome-utterly beaten-perhaps killed; and his parents would never know how, or why. All these were thoughts which came afterwards, and in justification of what he had done to obtain so odious and disgraceful a character; for, to confess the truth, poor Seymour felt nothing at the time but terror-terror, and wretchedness not to be described; but arising far less out of the sense of personal danger than the conviction that he stood alone amongst numbers, and was hated-terrible doom to one so loving and so gentle ! nor was his sentence much more easy to endure, now that he knew himself to be odious and despicable in the sight of his companions.

It

But, as already stated, Seymour could be roused, he could be so situated that his constitutional sense of danger vanished into nothing before his still stronger sense of injustice, oppression, or cruelty. happened, in the school in which he had been placed, that there was another feeble boy like himself, but weak in mind as well as body; and, what made some little difference, a boy who was looked upon as of lower grade than the others. This poor neglected fellow had learned to live a good deal alone, and to amuse himself without mixing much in the sports of the other boys. He was fond of animals, and particularly fond of a small patch of earth which he called his garden, and which he had surrounded by way of defence with a slender paling of broken sticks. These were continually knocked down by the other boys, who found endless amusement in committing depredations upon

Sloper's pleasure - grounds, as they called the garden. In the fondness of this boy for animals, he had at different times added something of a menagerie to his property, and on the arrival of Seymour

Clifton in the school, a hedghog was his reigning favourite. This animal he had succeeded in taming, so that it would come out at his call; though, by a kind of instinctive terror, it rolled itself up and presented only a prickly ball to any other boy. Why the harmless hedgehog should be the victim of more boyish cruelty than almost any other animal is a question that might well puzzle the ablest naturalist, did not these men of science almost universally overlook the moral in their investigation of the physical. But so it is, and Sloper's hedgehog " was no exception to the general rule.

was

On one occasion it happened that the rittle prickly ball had been kicked from one boy to another, for an unusual length of time; the frightened and agonised owner of this, to him precious property, standing in hopeless inaction, and watching the operations with tears in his eyes. There one, however, who watched these operations besides himself, but not with tears. Had any one observed Seymour Clifton at that moment, they would scarcely have doubted his fitness for the command of an armada; for there he stood with flashing eye and burning cheek, the very personification of desperate and tremendous daring. At last a big burly fellow snatched the hedgehog from the others; and soon a strange weak cry arose, resembling that of an infant in pain. It is a fact, kind reader, that boys will take out a comb and saw it across the leg of the hedgehog, almost cutting it in two, for the purpose of making it utter this strange cry. These are poor ignorant boys, however, who do not happen to have been taught better. In the present instance, it is possible the cry was elicited by a less vulgar mode of proceeding. But whatever it might be, the pain was caused, and the cry was excited, to the disgust of some of the boys, but to the amusement of others.

The cry had scarcely been repeated a second time, when the boy who perpetrated the cruelty received such a blow on the side of his head as sent him staggering some yards over the grass, and finally brought him prostrate on the ground. As suddenly the hedgehog was snatched from his hands, and borne back to its rightful owner.

The boys looked amazed, as well they

might,—for it was no other than Seymour Clifton who had done this valiant act. Nor did any fear of consequences overtake him when the act was done. No; he returned like a man, confronted the boys, and told them they were a pack of mean cowardly despicable wretches to inflict that abomniable cruelty upon a poor helpless creature wholly incapable of defending itself.

Taken in this manner so entirely by surprise, and convinced more by the truth than the eloquence of what Seymour said, the boys scarcely attempted to defend themselves; some looked angry, some pouted and shrugged their shoulders, but all, in the most unaccountable manner, dropped off, and went their way about other matters,-their fallen comrade being the first to discover that he had heard the bell ring for dinner five minutes before.

Nothing could exceed the gratitude of the poor boy whose humble favourite had thus been restored to him; and from that time, though Seymour Clifton might be more disliked by some of the boys, he was certainly more respected by all. He was, however, soon removed from this school to another, in which he pursued his studies with more comfort, in consequence of his having learned better how to conduct himself amongst other boys by the painful experience of his first outset in scholastic life. From this time forth Seymour betook himself to diligent and serious study. Relieved from the agony of mind which the treatment of the first school inflicted upon him, he seemed to give up his whole soul to the most laborious and sometimes difficult mental occupations, scarcely allowing himself time for necessary exercise. Indeed he seldom played like other boys, but kept aloof, and walked alone, whenever he could. Not that he was morose, selfish, or sullen. All who were in suffering or distress found him far otherwise, and he had ever a kind look or kind word for all; but their ways were not his ways, nor their thoughts his thoughts. Though habitually startled out of his selfpossession at the first approach of personal danger, the delicate boy was often wishing himself dead. And then he used to think of the wild cold sea, and the great booming waves; and, perhaps, even more

than all, and with a greater horror still, of the coarse, rude sailors, and of the part that he should have to act amongst those who would rank with himself in order to maintain any tolerable degree of credit.

It would seem strange that of the two oldest Cliftons, Seymour was the only one who rebelled against his fate; but with all his delicacy and constitutional gentleness, the virtue of passive submission was not naturally his. Indeed duty seemed very hard to Seymour, much more so than to his brother Robert, who went his straightforward course in so direct and prompt a manner that few people would have been aware how much the faithful discharge of his did sometimes cost him. Seymour felt a thousand difficulties, however, where Robert felt perhaps but one; and mastered that with manly determination. But his brother's were never wholly mastered. They seemed ever to rise again in some new form; so that people always said of Seymour, "How is that boy ever to get through the world?"

Seymour wondered perhaps as much as any one, for to him the world looked very much at times like a great howling wilderness, only that he loved its myriad beauties; its wealth of woods; its garniture of flowers; and all the changing aspects of the clouds and sky; sunset and moonlight, morn, and evening. Oh, how he loved all these !-only there was the sea -the great cold sea! and he was destined to be tossed for ever on its restless bosom. The garden bower; the college nook; the household hearth; the classic luxuries of library and cabinet, were not for him; nor the sweet voice of home; but roar, and shout, and tumult, and strange men of other language than his own.

"Oh, Robert!" Seymour sometimes said, appealing to his brother, "do save me from this horrid sea?"

But Robert grew in time to think, with many others, that the sea would do his brother good; that the rough discipline of the life to which he was destined was the very thing to make a man of him. So he tried to laugh away this pitiful appeal, sometimes telling his brother that he did but share the common lot, that all had something to put up with not quite agreeable to their tastes, but that duty

must be done, however difficult. To all which reasoning Seymour listened, as may easily be supposed, without being comforted. "They none of them understand me," was the constant expression of his wounded spirit,-and perhaps he was not far wrong.

It was a custom with the heads of the Clifton family to send their children, during the Midsummer holidays, to some quiet rural place, generally a farm-house, where they were expected to drink new milk, and gain health every day. None of the family exulted in this change more than Philip, though all enjoyed it as children will, even where the means of enjoyment look rather poor and scanty to their older companions. All the Cliftons, however, enjoyed this change, according to their different tastes. Robert repaired to the shed of the village carpenter; or, if it must be exposed, sometimes to the village smithy. By de grees he collected together a very respectable set of tools, and then began to work his own lathe, and to carry on many other delightful operations in an old barn on the farm premises, which at that time of the year remained unoccupied. Philip was by turns the haymaker, the cattle-driver, the fetcher-up of stray ponies, or the active agent in any wild work that had to be done,-performing, for his own private amusement, about ninety-nine strokes of mischief for one of work. The sisters (for we must now introduce them into the scene) were not behind their brothers in any kind of play which did not involve them in the dangers to which Philip was so much addicted. The work, however, they absolutely declined, and so spent their time in romping until they were tired, and then reposing in a sort of listless indolence, neither reading nor doing anything else to which a name could be assigned. The nearest escape from this state is to what is called fancy-work, and of course the Cliftons had their share of that. But at present their characters are too little developed to admit of much being said about them; only that Helen, the older, was beginning to display, in her almost perfect form and face, those indications of womanly attraction upon which her mother had so confidently calculated; while little Kitty, still a mere child, ran

about hither and thither, the most careless, and perhaps the most unlovely, creature that ever escaped the charge of sheer ugliness. How Kitty did escape no one ever knew, nor why, while associated with her beautiful sister, she so often managed to become the favourite,-but so it was; and even now, young as she was, there was an almost universal cry for little Kitty, whenever anything pleasant was about to be done, or anything funny about to be enjoyed. It was Kitty in the boat, Kitty on the pony, Kitty everywhere, or the happiness of the other children seemed not to be complete. Perhaps it was her youth, her childishness, the fact of her being the child amongst older children, who naturally like to have something like infancy committed to their keeping. We can only repeat that so it was, leaving her future history to explain the cause.

Especially to Seymour Clifton did the presence of his little sister Kitty appear to impart a never-failing joy, while the merry child on her part seemed to find equal pleasure in clinging to the soft white hand of the delicate and gentle boy. And yet these two walked very silently together, comported with the style in which the others comported themselves; and it was curious to see how Kitty, whose laugh was the most infectious and unrestrained amongst her stronger brothers, would hush her wild giggling, and subdue her voice when she approached her brother Seymour, as if something like an instinctive awe came over her; and sometimes when she looked up steadily into his clear blue eyes, there came quick gushing tears into her own, and such a solemn thoughtful expression spread itself all over her little ordinary face, that Seymour himself would laugh, and ask her why she looked in that way, though he loved the little earnest countenance the better for its strange old look.

Girls begin early to evince their womanly propensities, and that of attaching themselves to objects requiring peculiar attention and care is one of their first indications of this kind. It is said of them-or perhaps we ought to say of women, not of girls, that they love the strong, the powerful, those from whom they themselves expect assistance or protection. But this is a low view to take of woman's ten

dencies. Rather let us believe that they yearn to be the care-takers themselves, as Nature has fitted them to be-that they esteem it more blessed to give than to receive; and so with instinctive tenderness espouse the cause of the delicate, the suffering, or the oppressed. Certain it is, that our little Kitty, from some cause or other, attached herself in an especial manner to her brother Seymour; and when she saw him borne down, or rallied beyond his powers of patient endurance by either of his brothers, her cheek flushed, and her eyes flashed fire, as if she felt herself the honoured champion who was to fight his battles, and to give him all the glory.

In this manner the child grew very naturally into the heart of her brother, ever open as it was to kind and gentle influences. Ever too easily pained, also, as that heart was by ridicule, or condemnation, there was something almost necessary to its healthy pulsation in the fond companionship of a child who was utterly incapable as yet of recognising anything weak or absurd in the words or actions of a brother so beloved-so almost revered. What inexpressible consolation may arise out of this fact, let those ask themselves who have turned in their moments of wounded feeling

which are often moments of suffering selflove,-who have turned at such moments to the faithful affection of a child, or even of a dumb animal, and felt themselves rich in that possession. May not this fact include a deep secret lying at the foundation of other attachments besides that of a brother to his younger sister?

From pure gratitude, then, if from no other cause, Seymour felt peculiarly bound to his youngest sister, and with her much of his leisure time was spent; for though his thoughts generally took a range far beyond what hers could follow, yet, from her very childishness and simplicity she avoided jarring upon his tastes, or even interrupting his meditations. Her constant prattle,-and it must be owned that it was constant, was rather like the song of the bird in the forest, the hum of the wandering bee, or the ripple of the mountain brook, which though continual, rather harmonise with, than disturb, the reflections of the silent traveller as he treads the solitudes of Nature.